


Weak

by kitkatkaylie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Hurt Robb Stark, Hurt Theon Greyjoy, Hurt very little comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Threats of rape/non con, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26939164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatkaylie/pseuds/kitkatkaylie
Summary: Robb thought he was going to die alongside his men as they were slaughtered at the Red Wedding, but the Boltons have other plans for the former king...
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is dark, it starts off fairly dark and is only going to get darker. I’ll update the tags, ratings, and warnings as necessary but it is going to get a lot darker just to warn you now.

Robb opened his eyes. 

It was notable only for the fact that he had thought he would never open them again. He had been attacked, and felt pain, and entered a blackness, and he had thought he was dying. Apparently though, this was not what had happened.

There was still a darkness around him, but it was a broken darkness, one with pinpricks of light filtering through it. Some type of fabric, a bag or sack if the looseness was any indication. 

He was lying down, his hands and feet bound, and the wood beneath him was moving as though he was in a cart. The chill told him he was in the North, that bite of cold air that was so familiar. 

The bag muffled all noises, and slowly he felt himself being rocked back into sleep. 

His dreams were full of anger, of blood and pain and the sight of his mother screaming, her throat a red line. 

It was almost a relief to wake up as the cart lurched to a stop and the shouting of men echoed faintly around him.

The thud of a boot onto the cart floor made Robb jump, he had hardly expected to be remembered so soon, not when if they were still setting up a camp. But perhaps- perhaps they had arrived at their final destination and his captor was ready to show him off already. 

“Hold still.” A horrifyingly familiar voice said as softly as ever, “I need to undo the bonds on your feet, of you do not wish to be dragged along the floor.”

Robb did as he was bid, he would not be able to escape with his legs bound, and he would not be dragged to his death, he would walk as his father had walked to the Sept of Baelor. 

“Very good.” Bolton, for who else had such a menacingly soft voice, “Sit up if you are able, and I shall help you stand.”

Blood rushed from Robb’s head, leaving him lightheaded and dizzy as he sat, but a cold hand kept him from falling, with an almost gentle touch. 

The hand remained around his arm, guiding him to his feet and supporting him as they walked. The mud squelched beneath his boots, and Robb desperately tries to work out where he was from what little he could sense. 

Bolton released his grip on him suddenly, forcing him to stop for fear of crashing into something or someone. Muffled voices filtered through the bag, but they were too quiet for him to hear. 

“I have a gift for you Ramsay.” Robb finally heard Bolton say, his voice loud enough to break through the cloth clearly. “An addition to your budding collection of pets.”

Robb was yanked forwards and the bag wrenched from his head, leaving him blinking in the weak autumn sun. Flayed man banners hung on the walls, and though he did not know the stone walls, he could only have been taken to the Dreadfort. 

“Is that?” There was evident delight on the face of the man before him, “Is that the famed Young Wolf?”

“It is.” Bolton’s hand threaded through Robb’s hair and tugged harshly, “I trust you are proficient enough to make him like your other pet. You must leave him intact though, who knows when we might need a Stark?”

Robb snarled and wrenched away from Bolton, he was no man’s pet. 

“Ah, he has spirit still, I see.” The man grinned, “How much of him can I cut off before he loses it, I wonder?” 

Robb growled, “Lay a finger on me and I shall see you lose it.” He promised in a low voice, “Just as the esteemed Lord Bolton will lose his head for the treason he has plotted.” 

“You may not disfigure his face, nor remove any part which would allow us to gain a Stark from him, otherwise I leave it to your discretion, Ramsay.” Bolton said, utterly ignoring Robb’s outburst.

“Excellent,” The man - Ramsay - said, before he turned to Robb and his tone turned sickly sweet, “You and I are going to have a lot of fun together little wolf.”

A hand trailed down Robb’s face, and he resisted the urge to turn and bite it, there was a glint in Ramsay’s eye that told him he would assuredly not like the consequences if he did. 

—

Robb’s arms ached, his legs ached, his whole body ached. 

He had been taken down to the dungeon, a knife kept to his throat to keep him from fighting, and strapped to a wooden cross. And then he had just been left, a single candle slowly but steadily burning down, and the drip of water the only sound other than his own breaths. 

The positions was unnatural, and it had not taken long for his muscles to start to burn and protest, just as it had not taken long for the cold air to slip beneath the torn and ragged formal clothes he was still wearing. 

“Reek, hurry up.” The voice of Ramsay Snow echoed from outside the door, “How am I supposed to give you your surprise if you refuse to keep up?”

The sound knocked Robb from his reverie, counting the drops of water and trying to breathe around the pain.

The door pushed open with a clang, the metal harsh as it grated against the stone, and Robb tried to twist his head to see who had entered.

Boot-steps echoed around the room, making it hard to tell where exactly they were heading. A feature of the room most likely, rather than an accident of design. 

They stopped ahead of him, although he could only tell from the torch which was held in Ramsay’s hands, illuminating both his visitors and Robb himself. 

“Go ahead Reek, look closely at your surprise. Maybe you can tell me who it is.” 

The creature was shoved forwards, shoved into the torch light which bathed Robb. 

There was a moment where they merely looked at each other, blue eyes staring into green, and then the realisation hit.

“Theon?” Robb breathed, forgetting he was tied up for a moment as he tried and failed to reach out to the man he had once (the man he still) loved.

Theon flinched away. “Not Theon. Reek, Reek! It rhymes with meek and freak and weak!” He pleaded, his voice desperate and his eyes continuously darting between Ramsay and Robb in terror. 

“Reek.” Ramsay’s voice cut through Theon’s litany, “Tell me, who is before you?”

“R- Robb Stark, Master.” Theon stuttered, wringing his hands together nervously. 

“Is that so?” Ramsay moved to take hold of Theon’s hair and wrench his head back, “But how could little Reek recognise Robb Stark? Reek has never met him, only Theon Greyjoy.”

Theon’s eyes widened with the same panic of a deer before a hunting dog, “Sorry, Master, sorry! Reek does not know where he knows Robb Stark from! Reek is loyal and Good!” 

Ramsay used Theon’s hair to throw him to the floor, “Show me how sorry you are, lick my boots and maybe I will forgive you.”

Robb could see what was going to happen, but could only watch in mute horror as Theon bent to lick Ramsay’s boot only to be kicked in the face.

“Leave him alone!” Robb struggled against his bonds, desperately trying to break free so he could help Theon, a burst of energy having suddenly found him. “He did as you asked, why are you tormenting him so?” 

He could not, all he succeeded in doing was drawing Ramsay’s attention to him.

“You do not get to order me, little pup.” Ramsay said dangerously, “You do not get to question me, I order and question you.” 

He backhanded Robb hard. Hard enough that his cheek slammed into the wood of the cross, and blood welled up inside Robb’s mouth. 

“Speaking of which,” Ramsay leaned forwards with a terrifying curiosity in his eyes, “Let’s start our own little session. Tell me, Robb Stark, why did your men call you ‘The Young Wolf’?” 

Robb spat out a glob of blood and refused to answer. He would not become like Theon, cowering in the corner and jumping to obey every one of Ramsay’s whims.

Ramsay sighed and backhanded him again, “You will answer when I ask you a question, or I will flay you and Reek both.”

Robb’s eyes darted over to Theon, to the way he moaned and rocked at the mention of flaying. He could not put him through that, not for something so stupid as refusing to answer a question.

“They called me that because despite my age I fought with the ferocity of a wolf.” He gritted out.

He did not need to look at Ramsay to know he was smirking. 

“Very good!” The Bolton bastard crooned, “That wasn’t so bad now, was it? In fact, for answering so nicely I’ll even let you down off the cross, provided you tell me whether you think you still deserve that name. Whether you think you still deserve to be called ‘The Young Wolf’ after leading your armies and family to a slaughter. The truth mind you, I shall know if you lie and neither you nor Reek will enjoy the consequences.”

Every word was a knife, cutting deep into Robb’s heart, and he wanted to ignore them, he truly did, but he still had to answer and truthfully at that.

“No.” He whispered, shame curling in his gut. 

Ramsay barked out a laugh, but he did keep his word and cut the bonds holding Robb to the cross. 

He fell to the floor, his muscles aching too much to support his weight, and fought not to press his face to the cold stone floor to try and soothe the ache in his cheek.

“No, I thought not.” Ramsay’s voice was filled with a false sympathy, “You are too pathetic to be called by such a grand name any more. Too pathetic to even bear the name ‘Stark’ I think, even diminished as it now is.”

He moved even closer, so one bolt was either side of Robb’s head and he looked down at Robb, his face twisted into a cruel smile and his eyes lit up with something akin to lust. 

“I think I’ll call you Weak.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Robb did not bother to hold in his scream, there was no point. Holding in a scream merely made him tireder faster, it was better to let it all out.

The blade slid under his skin again, and hot breath panted in his ear.

“Tell me your name.” Ramsay said, his sweet tone a direct contrast to the blade he was wielding.

“R-Robb Stark!” 

The blade was drawn out of his skin, only to be stabbed into his hand.

“No. That’s not right.” The patronising tone made Robb flinch, “Robb Stark was the name of a lord and a king, you are neither. Try again. What is your name?”

Robb shook his head, he didn’t know what the bastard wanted him to say.

“Robb! My name is Robb! I don’t know what else you want me to say!” Robb cried, twisting and writhing on the cross. 

For some reason the sigh of disappointment made Robb flinch, made something heavy pool in his gut.

“Reek, tell him what his name is.” The bastard ordered.

Theon whimpered as his name was called, but he did as he was bid.

“W- Weak, Master, you called him Weak. It rhymes with freak and meek.”

“Very good Reek.” Robb wanted to shudder at the malice in Ramsay’s voice, “And tell me, what happens when we don’t know our names?”

Theon let out a little shriek and started to shake even more, “Reek knows his name Master! Reek knows it!”

Ramsay sighed, “I know that, you silly creature, I’m asking you what will happen if Weak here continues to forget his name?”

“His- his fingers? Master?” Theon eventually ventured, “You- You’ll flay his fingers?”

“That’s  _ right _ .” Ramsay turned away from Theon and grinned at Robb, “I’ll flay his fingers if he can’t tell me his name. Now tell me, what is your name?”

Robb gritted his teeth. He did not want to cave so soon, did not want to show weakness so soon, but if his fingers were flayed his chance of escape was greatly lessened. 

“Weak.” He hung his head, shame flooding every part of his body. 

“Good.” Ramsay threaded a hand through his hair and tugged his head roughly to the side. “Now I’m going to help you remember it, say ‘thank you’ for my kindness.”

He licked a stripe up Robb’s cheek, the wet skin soon turning cold in the freezing air of the dungeon. Robb did not react. He would not thank his captor, not for what was undoubtedly another torment. 

“Ungrateful wretch.” Robb’s head was tugged to the other side in a move that made his cry out as Ramsay hissed at him, his patience having obviously run out, “You will regret your insolence, soon you will be pleading for me to be as kind and patient as I have been.”

A burst of courage filled Robb’s veins, a burst of foolish bravado, for really what did he have to lose? 

He coughed once, gathering up all the spittle and blood that the cough dislodged, and carefully aimed at Ramsay Snow’s face.

He spat, and watched as, almost in slow motion, the spittle landed in Snow’s eye.

The offence and bewilderment which filled the bastard’s features was worth the way the knife was yanked from his hand as Ramsay jerked away from him. 

“You bastard!” Snow cursed, “I’m going to fucking kill you for that!”

“I’m not the bastard,” Robb taunted, the courage still in his veins, “And your father forbade you to kill me.” 

Theon scrambled away from them, his frantic movements only visible out of the corner of Robb’s eye so focused was he on Ramsay’s reaction.

It was interesting, how the bastard suddenly seemed to cam into a sinister sort of state of mind, how his raging anger cooled into a terrifying calm. Or it probably would have been more interesting, had that calm not been directed at Robb.

“Reek,” Ramsay said softly, “Hand me the whip.” 

The courage started to drain away, but Robb would stand strong. He could survive a whipping, he would survive a whipping, he would have to, for Roose Bolton had ordered it. 

“Fight me and I’ll cut off your pretty little feet.” Ramsay crooned, “I’m sure you don’t want me to whip your chest, a Weak thing like you would never survive it.”

He used the knife still dripping with the blood from Robb’s hand to cut the bonds which bound him to the cross. 

Robb wanted to fight, his pride practically demanded it, but he knew that the bastard would carry out his threat. He stood still and allowed himself to be retired to the cross, his chest against the wood of its beams.

Crack ! 

The whip lashed against Robb’s back, a bright pain that seemed to cut and tear at his skin. 

Crack! Crack!

Each lash was like fire against his back. Again and again they hit, a steady rhythm of pain . 

Robb’s mind latched onto anything else he could, the feel of the blood dripping down his back, the roughness of the rope around his wrists and ankles, even the whimpers that Theon was letting out. 

It didn’t help much, the pitiful distractions only working for the time between each searing lash. 

By the time Ramsay stopped, by the time the whip stopping cracking against his skin, Robb was struggling to breathe through his tears and his throat was hoarse from screaming. 

“Now tell me,” Ramsay leaned forwards once more, putting pressure upon the agonising wounds that crossed Robb’s back, “What is your name?”

Robb hung his head in defeat, the fight having bled out of him with every lash.

“Weak.” He said, in a defeated voice. “My name is Weak.”

—

“You shouldn’t anger Master.” Theon said with more confidence than Robb had seen in him since his arrival in the Boltons’ hands. 

Robb raised his head and grinned sardonically, “I was actually thinking of making a habit of it Theon, I do so enjoy the way his face goes red with rage.”

Theon flinched, “Reek! Reek, not Theon! Don’t say that name!”

“And why not? Theon is _your_ name, you are Theon Greyjoy, last son of Balon Greyjoy.” 

“Theon is dead. He was Bad and now he is dead. Reek is Good though, Reek is a Good Boy.” 

Robb shook his head, “You are Theon! Yours are the hands which took Winterfell, yours are the hands which killed my brothers! You are the man I love who still betrayed me!”

Theon flinched again, a violent flinch, “Reek did not kill your brothers! Theon killed two boys but-“ His voice dropped to a low volume, barely breathing the next words, “-but they were not your brothers.”

The faintest glimmer of hope bloomed in Robb’s chest, if Bran and Rickon were alive then perhaps not everything was lost. 

It died quickly though, when a gentle hand, a hand missing fingers, was pressed to the torn up flesh of his back. A reminder of where he was and the likelihood of his escape. 

“Master is kind.” Theon said, “He sent honey and bandages. Not the irons or spirits he uses to seal Reek’s wounds. Weak, Weak is lucky for Master’s kindness.”

It did not feel like Robb was lucky, it did not feel much like kindness. 

“My name is Robb.” He whispered, instead of anything else, “My name is Robb.” 

Theon looked at him with pitying eyes,

“Is it?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Reek, show Weak how a good pet asks to be fed.” Ramsay said with a cruel glint to his eye.

Theon fell to his knees and looked up at Ramsay through his eyelashes like some whore in the brothel. 

“Please master.” He breathed, “Please, Reek knows he’s not worthy, but master is kind.”

“Very good Reek, that’s very pretty begging, but I can’t just feed you. It wouldn’t be fair to only feed one of you.” His gaze turned to Robb. “Now it’s your turn Weak, beg for your dinner.”

Robb tilted his chin up defiantly, he would not beg, no matter how hungry he became. He would not give Ramsay the pleasure.

His decision must have shown on his face for the cruel glint in Ramsay’s face hardened into malice.

“So be it.” He said softly, “Until you beg me as prettily as Reek does then neither of you will be fed.”

—

Robb was not sure what was more degrading: the heavy iron manacles around his wrists and ankles, or the work he was being forced to do.

He supposed that if he had to choose then he would say it was the manacles, for he had helped to muck out stable before - it had been a favourite punishment of Father’s when he and Jon and Theon had got up to mischief. 

He didn’t particularly like it, but at least he was no longer bound to that infernal cross.

His back ached, and his wrists chafed under the cold, heavy manacles, but the work itself wasn’t terrible. It was difficult, but not much more exerting than training in full armour. 

What was worst was the derision and mocking grins sent his way by Ramsay’s minions. They seemed to go out of their way to make him miserable, shoving him and yanking at his chains, and taunting him.

If he didn’t respond to their taunts then they backhanded him, and if he did then they punched Theon in the gut.

Robb could not win.

His face hurt, and he was sure he was going to be sporting a mass of purple bruising soon enough. He tried to keep his mouth shut, tried not to respond to the temptation that was the torment of the guards, but every so often the thought of another bruise layered upon his cheek was just too much.

He spoke back, he goaded the guards, and then was forced to watch as a punch knocked Theon to the floor. 

Guilt filled his stomach, stronger even than the ache of pain in his cheek. 

Worse than the wince of pain on Theon’s face, worse than the sight of him struggling out of the mud, worse than all that was the resigned look in Theon’s eyes. The acceptance as though he knew that the blow was to happen. 

And Robb could not help the dread he felt at the sight. The dread that he might too look like that, if Ramsay had his way. 

—

“Are you ready to beg yet, Weak?” 

Robb stared straight ahead, ignoring the noise his stomach was making, ignoring the way Theon looked pale with hunger.

“No?” Ramsay smiled, “We’ll try again tomorrow.” 

Robb tried not to see the way that Theon slumped, tried not to hear the soft moan Theon let out. But he could not completelyclose his ears, and a stab of guilt filled his soul at Theon’s hungry face.

—

It was strange how little Robb had realised just how often the grates and fireplaces had to be cleaned and tended to. It had always happened around him, even while he was in a war camp keeping his fire burning was never one of his priorities, he had squires and attendants to do that job.

So no, he had not realised how often it had to happen until Ramsay had instructed him to tend for the grates in the eastern towers of the Dreadfort. 

He’d never cleaned a grate before, never had a need to. 

He had quickly learnt through, it was hard not to when doing it wrong meant that his head was slammed into the mantle.

Robb was pretty sure that one of the times his head was slammed had knocked him briefly unconscious, for he was missing a few minutes of memory and could not quite recall slumping to the floor. 

It was not easy work, not when he was unused to it, not when his legs and arms kept being kicked by his guard, not when he was nearly faint with hunger. 

Robb was soon covered in ash, his hands and face blackened and the scant clothing he was allowed dirtied and stained until little of its original colour remained. 

The front of his shirt was black and grey with soot and ash and dirt from the floor, the back streaked with red from when his scabs had cracked open as he was forced to bend over. 

There was a pain emanating from the wounds, and a fear that they would be once infected lingered in Robb’s mind, but he did not say anything. He had already been taught that to speak up without prompting was to invite pain upon himself and others. 

The sight of Theon’s pained face would forever sear that in his mind.

Besides, there would be no sympathy for him, if anything he would invite another beating, and Robb did not think he could put himself through another one. 

He lowered his head and focused once more on the grate in front of him. 

He knew it was craven, knew it was _weak_ , but he was already so tired of hurting. 

—

“Are you ready to beg yet?” 

Robb’s head swam with hunger, the smell of the food in Ramsay’s hands was so very tempting. 

He shook his head, he would not beg. He refused to beg. 

“Very well.” Ramsay’s lips curled into the cruellest smile Robb has seen yet, “That is your choice.”

He sat at the small table, and started to tear into the food. Each bite he took was met with a pleased sound, the scent of it all filling every corner of the cell. 

Ramsay drew out the meal, making sure they heard each and every bite he took, making sure that they were aware of every crumb he ate. 

And through it all they had to kneel there, their stomachs empty and heads swimming.

And Robb felt his resolve start to waver. 

—

It was so much harder to work, with his gnawing hunger as the only thing Robb could focus on. 

He hadn’t been sent to muck stables or to empty grates, no, instead he’d been sent to the kitchens and the scullery. 

He’d been sent to scrub dishes and pots, to scour them under the watchful eyes of a guard. 

He knew that if he even thought about taking some of the scraps left on the plates, of he even dreamt of it, then he would be beaten by the guard. 

And so he didn’t.

It was difficult though, so very difficult. The food smelt so good, and his head wasfaint with hunger. He desperately wanted to slip some into his mouth, desperately wanted to fill the gnawing agony that was his stomach. 

But the guard was watching. The guard was watching and waiting and Robb knew that he wanted nothing more than an excuse to beat him. 

And he was so sore, he still ached from his previous beatings.

Robb put his head down and ignored the food, hating himself for his cowardice. 

—

“Are you ready to beg yet?” 

Robb looked up at his master, looked up at the plate of food and then across at Theon, across at Theon who was wobbling in place he was so faint from hunger.

He dropped his eyes. 

And Weak begged. 


	4. Chapter 4

Robb limped along the hallway, he had been summoned to attend to Ramsay, and although he hated the thought of it, a part of him was grateful that he would at least be in the warmth.

It had snowed the previous evening, a small drift floating through the tiny window of his cell, remaining frozen on the floor and chilling him to the bone.

He was almost jealous of Theon, almost jealous of the way that Theon was allowed to curl up in the kennels with the dogs. Almost jealous that Theon was allowed the relative warmth of straw and warm bodies around him while Robb merely had the icy stones.

But then, Theon had done something to earn the privilege, Weak hadn’t.

Robb scolded himself, he shouldn’t think that way. He should be grateful that Theon got even an ounce of meagre comfort, not be jealous of him for it. 

The wounds on his back still ached, but it was a dull ache now,!one that was only exacerbated by the regular kicks and punches aimed his way by guards and Ramsay’s cronies. Weak no longer fought back against the guards, not after being beaten into unconsciousness and left lying in the mud the last time he tried to. 

He was so focused on the stones before him, so careful not to meet the gaze of anyone else in a way which might be classed as defiant, that he walked straight into a maid. 

She fell to the floor, and with her fell the clean linens she was carrying, and dread filled Robb’s heart. He hardly imagined that the Boltons were kind employers, and he would hate for the maid to be punished for his mistake. 

He scrabbled to help her pick them up, offering apologies under his breath the entire time. 

The maid regarded him with disgust and pity rather than the fear he had expected, and while it stung to be looked at in such a way, he could hardly blame her. His clothes stank and were engrained with blood and manure and ash. His face was streaked with grime and he could feel how thin his cheeks had become. His hair was matted and so thick with dirt and dried blood it was nearly impossible to tell that it should have been red in colour. 

He did not look as bad as Theon did, but he certainly did not look healthy. 

The maid hurried off as soon as the linens were back in her arms, only a quick glance over her shoulder at Weak as thanks. 

That didn’t offend Robb though, he hadn’t helped for thanks. He had helped because it was the right thing to do as well as because it made him feel a little more like  _ Robb _ than Weak.

He finally managed to limp into Ramsay’s chambers, his mind ready for any task he might be asked to complete even if his body was not.

To his terror though, when he walked in Ramsay’s face held a disappointed look. 

“Weak. Weak. Weak.” Ramsay shook his head, “Do you know what a little rat has just told me?”

Robb risked a glance into Ramsay’s icy eyes, “No, my lord.”

“Don’t you? Well, a little rat told me that you decided to help a clumsy maid instead of come straight to me as you were ordered. You disobeyed me, stupid little Weak.”

“I’m sorry!” Weak gasped out, “I only wanted to help!”

“It doesn’t matter how sorry you are Weak, what matters is that because a maid was clumsy you disobeyed. Since I am sure you wouldn’t have disobeyed without the maid I do believe we must remove her from the picture to make sure this doesn’t happen again.” 

Robb’s heart stopped. He could not bear it if someone was punished for his mistake, could not bear it if he had brought Ramsay’s ire down on an innocent. He had to try and help. 

“It was my fault, my Lord,” Robb kept his eyes downturned, kept his gaze focused on Ramsay’s boots instead of his face, “I caused the maid to drop the linens.”

He did not dare to look up, not until a bark of cruel laughter left Ramsay’s mouth. 

“Ahh Weak, such a stupid creature. You still think you can help people!” Ramsay bared his teeth in a grin, “But you can’t. You can only bring them pain.”

Robb flinched away from the bloodthirsty glee on Lord Ramsay’s face, it was an expression which never meant anything good. 

Lord Ramsay clapped his hands and both Weak and Theon jumped at the sound.

One of his boys entered, the maid clutched in his arms as she writhed and fought to get away. Or at least, she did until she saw Ramsay.

“Milord.” She said in a terrified voice, attempting to curtesy even while held.

“It’s Maude, isn’t it?” Ramsay asked in a threateningly pleasant voice, “You came here with my stepmother, didn’t you?”

The girl’s face went white with terror but she managed to nod and whisper, “Yes milord. I was brought here to serve Lady Walda.” 

“I wonder, Maude, whether you’ve heard the stories about what happens to girls who displease me.” He paused long enough for her to nod frantically, “Good, good. Now unfortunately Maude, you’ve happened to displease me. You see, you made my pet think he’s almost a person again, and we can’t have that now, can we?”

The girl burst into tears and shook her head, “Please milord, please! I didn’t mean to! Please, have mercy!”

Ramsay huffed impatiently, “I do so hate it when they start to blubber. It’s exhausting. Damon, shut her up.”

The Boy holding Maude slapped her hard enough that her lip split and a thin line of blood started to trickle down her chin. She continued to tremble, and tears continued to fall, but she fell silent.

“I was just going to kill you quickly, to prove to my pet that he cannot hurt anyone; but I am afraid that you have forced my hand.” Ramsay shook his head, like he was speaking to a small child rather than a terrified woman, “I am fair though, you may have a head start when I release you in the woods, and if you survive until the sun rises then you may live.”

The girl sagged, a look of dissociation on her pretty face, as though she could not quite believe what she was hearing. Robb did not blame her, he could not either.

“Damon, strip her and take her to the forest, she can have until my hounds are ready as a head start.” Ramsay ordered, orders it seemed Damon was happy to carry out if the grin upon his face was any indication.

Ramsay waited until she was gone before turning to Robb, “You are going to join the hunt, my little Weak. You are going to help track her down and catch her for me. I see you’re wondering why you would take part? Well, I shall tell you.” His voice took on a sweet, lulling tone, “You are going to catch that maid before sun rise, or I shall flay Reek here and leave him for the birds to eat. Do I make myself clear?”

Weak could only nod at Lord Ramsay and accept what he would have to do to save Theon.

— 

The floor of the forest was soft beneath his feet, a thick layer of powdery snow lay over rotting leaves until the ground was almost cushioned. The trees loomed, grey bark nearly disappearing in the soft light of dusk, their dark needles or brown leaves occasionally fluttering to the floor, swirling in the same wind that was carrying the snow.

Robb shivered in his thin shirt, it was so cold, the sort of cold he would never have been allowed out in without layer upon layer of clothing a year ago.

Of course, that had been before he had learnt about the cruelty some people were capable of. Back when he was naive and unbloodied and his family were still alive.

The dogs panted around him, reminding him so much of other hunts he had been on, ones with Grey Wind by his side or the dogs in Winterfell which he had played with as a child. But these dogs were not Grey Wind, they were savage, quick to attack and trained to take down wolves. 

Despite all that, Weak felt safer around them than he did Ramsay and his Boys, the dogs at least would not attack him for their own amusement.

He ran with them, trusting their noses to find their quarry, trusting that they would not lead him astray. 

A glimpse of pale skin through the grey trees sent a burst of energy through his flagging limbs, the knowledge that a quick hunt would please his master gave Weak a push to catch her.

The burst of speed was all he needed, the girl was half frozen from running bare through the snow, her energy snapped by the cold and the dark. He pushed her to the floor and knelt above her, her wrists pinned to the ground. She did not fight, not when it would have been foolish to do so with the pack of salivating hunting dogs just waiting for a chance to bring her down. 

She spat at him instead, drawing his attention to her face, the face that he had been avoiding for fear of the guilt that would tear through him. 

Blue eyes - eyes that reminded him of a sister long gone - glared up at him. 

“You failed us.” She spat, “You gave us a glimpse of freedom and let it be torn away by tyrants.”

Robb flinched back, toppling from the girl although his eyes never left hers.

“We had hopes, all of us did, that you would come back victorious and deal with the horrors that your father ignored. We thought you were different. We thought you were going to save us. But you let your brothers be killed and your crown be taken and now you are nothing more than a pet for the Bastard Butcher.” 

One hand found its way to Robb’s hair, and he started to tug at it in distress, he wanted her words gone, her cutting words, her true words. He wanted them out of his head.

“I tried.” He whispered, “I tried so hard. I’m sorry, I tried and I failed and I’m so sorry.”

The maid huffed at him, “Your apologies are not going to save me, not when you will choose the turncloak’s worthless life over my own.” 

Robb swallowed and gritted his teeth. She was right. He had to kill her. He had no choice, not unless he wanted Theon to suffer unimaginable agony. 

He crept forward once more, and used his body to pin her to the floor again. She would not run, not with the dogs circling, but he knew she would try to fight.

Nearly everyone did in their last moments.

He had no weapon, Ramsay did not trust him with one, but he had his hands.

Hand which he wrapped around her thin neck and squeezed and squeezed.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered once more, as her thrashing lessened and her eyes started to bulge, and apology to the girl and to the man Robb Stark had once been, “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t know how long he held her there, did not know how long it was between her movements stopping and Ramsay appearing at his side.

Ramsay let out a laugh at the sight of them, at Weak and the girl he had killed.

“I wasn’t sure you would actually go through with it Weak, wasn’t sure that you would actually kill her.” A broad hand settled onto Weak’s hair with a gentle pressure, “Good job.”

Weak smiled up at his master, the praise a balm to his tortured soul.


	5. Chapter 5

Weak curled up around Reek, trying desperately to keep him from shivering and feeling the icy wind that whistled through the kennels. Neither of them could afford to become ill, yet Reek seemed so much more fragile than Weak, and Weak could not help but do all he could to protect him even when it meant that he was the one to hurt instead. 

Master knew that, and used it as he would against them both. If Weak was bad then Reek would be punished, he’d be flayed or whipped or beaten.

The worst part for Weak was not watching the beatings and punishments, it was afterwards, when Reek would flinch away from him. Reek was always terrified of him afterwards, blamed him for the pain that wracked his weakened body.

It was understandable perhaps, but that did not make it hurt any less. 

Weak wanted to make it so that Reek never hurt again, that he was always warm and unhurt. But he wasn’t able to do that, he was too weak and pathetic. Too stupid to do anything right. He mucked up everything and master had to correct him.

The thought of the last correction made Weak flinch. A violent flinch that Weak hoped desperately would not have awoken Reek; and yet his hope was in vain. 

Reek shivered awake in Weak’s arms with a whimper, a terrified whimper that meant he had had a nightmare. Reek often had nightmares, as did Weak.

Weak’s were full of the howling of wolves, of a red haired woman screaming with a red line across her throat, and the brown eyes of the girl Weak had killed for Master. 

He didn’t like sleeping any more. Not when the nightmares haunted him. It was easier to stay awake and try to guard Reek’s sleep instead. 

He curled closer around Reek’s frail body, trying to lend him comfort and warmth.

“Shh.” He soothed, the words falling naturally from his lips, “I have you.”

Reek’s trembling only increased, fear and cold combined to make his frail form shake. 

“Shh.” Weak tried again, a long dormant memory poking at him and trying to make him adjust his arms and tone to better soothe Reek. 

Reek let out a pained whimper, and it was only then that Weak realised what the problem was, that he was pressing on at least one of Reek’s wounds.

Reek had been Bad so Master had beat him. And Master was good at beating them, his beatings always seemed to last longer than anyone else’s both in the moment and afterwards. 

Weak nuzzled Reek instead, the way he had seen the dogs do.

(The way he somehow remembered a wolf doing.)

“Sleep.” He whispered a final time, “I have you. You can rest now.”

He could not, would not say that Reek was safe. To say that would be a lie. Especially when Master might decide at any moment to come and play with them, or the Bastard’s Boys might decide to come and torment them. 

But Weak could still try and guard Reek’s rest. 

(And if it made a part of him, a part of him that was not truly Weak, agree with his actions for once? Well that was nobody’s business but Weak’s.)

—

“Good news, my precious pets.” Master crooned, “We’re moving!”

Weak cocked his head to the side, asking without using his voice, the voice which Master so hated. 

“M-Master?” Reek shook, “Reek doesn’t understand.”

Master laughed and patted Reek’s cheek hard enough that it left a mark.

“Silly Reek, of course you don’t understand! Understanding is for people not for dogs.”

Reek pressed into Master’s touch, his face slack with happiness. Even though Master’s words were not the kindest, they were still kinder than normal, and his touch was still kinder that normal as well. 

A hint of jealousy sparked in Weak at Reek receiving such kindness but not him.

He wanted Master to look at him with that sort of fondness, that sort of not-cruel amusement.

“Yes, my stupid pets we are moving! My father has given me a very important job, one you two are going to help me with!” Master twisted his hand in Reek’s hair and pulled his head up with a rough movement, “I’ve been tasked with rebuilding Winterfell, so that my father and I can use it as our seat as Wardens of the North, isn’t that exciting!”

The strangest thing started to happen, a growl started to build in Weak’s throat, although he did not know why. It was the sort of thing that had been mostly beaten out of him, and yet it was still happening.

He didn’t know why the name of a castle, or a title would cause him to react to Master like that, only that they had done so.

“Weak,” Master said softly, dangerously, “What was that noise?”

Master released Reek and took a menacing step towards Weak, his face creased with anger. His hands clenched and unclenched into fists, and every so often would move to hover at the sharp blade that lay upon his hip.

And Weak did something stupid, something so very stupid. He growled again.

It was a growl that was deeper than the hounds whose kennel Weak shared, one that reminded him more of a faint memory of grey fur and warmth than the sleek hounds. It was not a dog’s growl, and that made it Bad.

A kick to his stomach made Weak fall to the floor, the point of Master’s boots dug into him and he just knew there would be another bruise from them.

The boot kicked again, and again, and again. And Weak could do nothing but take it, as he tried to curl up enough to protect his soft organs. 

A hand grabbed his hair and wrenched him up, up and up until his feet somehow managed to take his weight.

“Poor, stupid Weak.” Master grinned, “Such a shame you made me do this. Such a shame that I am going to enjoy this so much.”

Weak whimpered and resisted the urge to apologise, he already knew it would do no good.

—

The walls were streaked with soot, the stones in some places blackened and cracked from the heat. Very little of the wood remained, and those bits that did showed signs of neglect.

The stables had disappeared entirely, although Weak was not sure  _ why  _ he was so sure that they were missing from where they had once stood, it was as though there was a memory belonging to someone else pushing its way into his mind. Perhaps it was a memory which belonged to the person who had existed before Weak had been born in the woods surrounding the Dreadfort.

A high keen left his throat at the sight of the Bolton banners hanging on the walls and flying above the gates. It looked  _ wrong,  _ and Weak didn’t like the uneasiness that it made him feel.

He whimpered and clung close to Reek, as much as he possibly could with his limbs still hurting and his back still sluggishly leaking blood. 

“Well, my pets,” Master held out his arms and grinned wildly, “What do you think of our new home?”

Weak whimpered again and found he could not meet his Master’s icy eyes, that he could not look up from the dark, ashy mud.

“It’s a bit of a shit hole, I know,” Master continued, “It’s last owners weren’t particularly careful with it, but I’m sure they’ve learnt their lesson now, even if they don’t realise that they have.”

Those words stung for a reason that Weak could not vocalise, as though they were personal indeed despite their generalised nature.

He started to whine lowly instead and cuddled closer to Reek, he did not like this change in their surroundings. He did not like Master’s joy, but there was not anything he could do about it at all.

He was at Master’s mercy, and always would be. 


	6. Chapter 6

Life did not change much for Reek and Weak in Winterfell. Their master was still as mercurial and menacing as ever. He demanded perfection from Weak and Reek, and if he did not get it then his wrath was swift.

If anything he seemed to be more mercurial than usual, perhaps due to the way that Roose Bolton seemed to be constantly snarling and demanding perfection from Master himself. Every so often Weak would hear of plans for a wedding, or sneering about some man called ‘Littlefinger’.

Whatever the reasoning, Weak and Reek were left to bear the brunt of Master’s anger and deal with his stress. 

“Weak.” Master said with a careless gesture, “Punish Reek for his impertinence.”

Weak let out a gentle whine, and looked at Reek sadly. He did not want to hurt Reek. Weak loved Reek. 

“Weak?” Master sang, “Don’t keep me waiting!”

Weak looked at Master. He looked at Reek. He looked at Master again. 

“How- how do you want Weak to punish Reek, Master?” 

Reek whimpered and cowered away, his hands over his face as though he did not want to see what was coming. 

“I don’t know.” Master said, “Use your tiny mind and come up with something. Something that will entertain me.” 

Weak did not know what to do. He did not want to hurt Reek. He did not want to disappoint his Master. 

Slowly he limped over to Reek, and looked down at him. 

“Please.” Reek whispered, “Please, good Reek, sweet Reek. Don’t hurt Reek.” 

Weak looked over at Master with big eyes, “Weak has to punish Reek?”

Master sighed and rolled his eyes, “Yes, you stupid mutt. Punish Reek.” 

Weak pulled back his leg to kick Reek, maybe if he did just that then Master would see it as a proper punishment? 

Reek flinched as Weak’s foot made contact with his ribs, and let out a light scream. It was a scream that shook Weak to the bone. He did not want to hear it again, and looked to Master for approval. 

Approval that his Master did not give him. 

“Is that all? Gods, do I have to do everything myself?” Master stood and rolled his eyes. “Come here you stupid creatures. Up from the floor Reek, I know you are not a man but you shall still walk to your punishment.”

Reek scrambled up, and quite against his will, Weak’s hand reached out to steady him. There was the chance it would anger Master, the chance that both of them would be punished for such a thing, but to Weak’s shock Master did nothing.

He led them down to the dungeons, Reek leaning on Weak just as much as Weak leant upon Reek. Neither of them liked the dungeons, the dungeons meant pain and fear and Master getting out his flaying knives.

Weak had not been flayed as much as Reek, he had not had as many bits removed as Reek. He did not know why, only that Master seemed reluctant to do anything completely permanent to Weak.

He was still afraid of the dungeons though, still afraid of the pain and the knives and the blood.

The air became decidedly colder the lower in the keep they went, the air becoming staler and filled with the iron scent of fear. Reek started to tremble, and Weak did as well. 

The trembling worsened as Master led them to a cell which contained a familiar wooden cross. A wooden cross which looked out of place in the cell for some reason that Weak could not put his finger on.

“You know what to do, Reek.” Master sang, “Up you go!”

Reek whimpered, but he knew better than to fight. Fighting only made it worse.

He stepped up to the cross and docilely allowed himself to be bound to it, his back facing out to the rest of the room.

Weak tried to shrink into the wall, tried to join the stones that made it. He did not want to punish Reek. He did not want to cause Reek pain.

He wanted to run away from the whole situation, wanted to escape being forced to hurt the man he loved. 

But Master would never allow it. 

Master would punish both of them. He would punish Weak and Reek far more fiercely than if Weak just submitted to this cruel game. Weak would keep his pride perhaps, he would maintain his insistence on not hurting Reek, but they would both lose. Maybe they would even lose a finger or toe, or if Master was angry enough he might even carry out his threat to remove a whole foot or hand. 

Master picked up a switch, thin and swishy and perfectly cut to ensure that it broke through skin quickly. It was not dissimilar to the switches that Weak remembered from a childhood locked away in the depths of his mind, only while that switch had been designed to hurt but not damage, this had been designed for both.

“Weak.” Master ordered, his voice carrying a thread of impatience, “Come and take this, I said that you shall be the one to punish Reek, and so you shall.”

Weak dragged his feet, and hoped his reluctance was not so obvious it could be labelled impertinence, and took the switch from his Master.

“Fifty lashes should do it.” Master smiled cruelly, “Any more and the switch might break. You will count every beat, Weak, and if you lose count or miss count then you shall start over. If I believe you are being too soft then you shall start over. Am I clear?”

Weak nodded, and bit his lip.

“Words, Weak! I need you to use your words.” Master backhanded him, snapping his head to the side and causing his lip to tear open, “Do you understand me, you fucking simpleton?”

The salty, copper taste of blood filled Weak’s mouth, and he cringed away from his Master. 

For a brief, stupid, glorious, moment he imagined taking the switch and turning it onto his Master, of beating him and making him bleed and taking Reek and running. But it was only a moment. Weak could never be so brave, not for himself, not even for Reek. 

“Yes, Master. I understand.” He whispered.

“Good.” Master patted his struck cheek in a mockery of gentleness. “Begin.”

Weak hoped that Reek could feel how sorry he was as he stepped up behind him, that he could feel the apology Weak was trying to convey as he pulled back his arm.

_Thwack._

“One.” Weak said, staring at the vivid red line across the knotted scar tissue of Reek’s back. He pulled back his arm again.

_Thwack._

“Two.” 

_Thwack._

“Three.” 

_Thwack._

“Four.” The fourth lay atop the first, splitting the skin beneath and causing beads of crimson to well up. 

Weak felt like crying at the sight of the blood he was spilling. He wanted to kiss it and lathe it in apologies and tenderness, but instead he had to raise his arm again.

He was only relieved that Reek had not yet yelled out or screamed, he was not sure if he could bring himself to harm someone who was screaming. Not without going even further inside himself or shattering his mind even more.

It took until the twentieth strike for Reek to make a sound, a strike which had even more blood welling up, enough that it started to trickle down Reek’s back in lines instead of just beading atop his skin. 

It was the strike that had Weak retreating inside his mind, into that safe place he hid while Master was punishing him. He could not lose count. He could not miss count. Not when Master was watching so intently, and he would be forced to start over if he did so.

By the time Reek had taken the fiftieth strike, by the time Weak was allowed to stop beating the one person he loved, and who loved him in return; by that time Reek’s back was more blood than skin. There was a pool of it at the floor by his feet, glinting wetly in the flickering torch light. Weak’s arm ached like he himself had been strapped to the wooden cross for hours, and he was coated in a fine layer of Reek’s blood. 

Weak looked at his hands, his thin, bloody hands. Weak looked at Reek’s back, his thin, bloody back.

And anger started to fill his heart once more, a tiny spark springing back to life. 

* * *

Winterfell was busy, as more and more people and banners arrived each day. Banners that sparked something in Weak, some sort of rage and sadness and a sense of betrayal. He was almost relieved when Master summoned him away from the courtyard and the sneering servants. 

“Weak, Reek, stay out of sight while my guests are here.” Master ordered, “My father will not be best pleased if the sight of you scares off my future bride.”

Reek stammered out his agreement while Weak merely nodded. He knew Master was still angry over having to help Weak punish Reek, and he did not want to anger him any further. That way surely lay pain. 

Master smiled at them both, his smile promised them both pain if they dared to disobey him, pain far worse than any pain they had felt before. 

He hid behind Reek slightly, lowering his head and hiding behind his own hair. Maybe if he could not see Master, then Master could not see him and remember his anger?

For a moment Master looked at them both, as though he thought they might be contemplating disobeying him. Only that was silly, Reek and Weak would never disobey Master.

Never.

Only… Weak _was_ curious about the lady who would be marrying Master. And from the look in Reek’s eyes, he was too.

* * *

It was Bad, Weak knew, but he could not keep from looking around the corner to see the Lady who would be marrying Master. He wanted to know who it was that would be joining them, who would only know the true horror of Master’s anger after she was bound to him forever.

Weak knew that whoever she was, she would not escape Master’s wrath. She would have slightly more protection than Weak and Reek, but not much.

Weak already pitied her.

His eyes widened as a stream of horses entered the yard, bearing banners of silver and white and the palest blue. Banners with mockingbirds, and one in the very centre with a snarling direwolf.

A lady with red hair that shined in the weak sun was in the centre of the party, a man with a pointed beard with a possessive hand upon her back.

For some reason Weak’s heart thumped at the sight of the lady with red hair. Somehow he knew her, even though Weak was certain he had never seen someone so pretty before. 

“It is good to finally meet you, my lady.” Master bowed over her hand, “To tell the truth you are someone I have wanted to meet for a long while now.”

Somehow Weak knew that the lady would be smiling thinly at Master, that it would not be a true smile, nor would her next words be true either. 

“And I have been wanting to meet you as well, Lord Bolton. I am as eager as you to mend the rift between our families.”

Master smiled, a cruel smile that had Weak shrinking back.

“I look forward to our wedding and the joining of our Houses, Lady Stark.”

A name that Weak did not recognise, one that filled him with grief, echoed through his head. 

_Sansa..._


	7. Chapter 7

Master did not have as much time for Weak and Reek, not with guests everywhere and a bride to woo. Reek was told to keep his own company, to attend to his usual tasks, where he was watched by Myranda.

Weak though, Weak was left to his own devices, kept within a single chamber out of sight.

He did not know why, only that it might be due to his hair matching the bride’s when he was allowed to wash. Perhaps Master did not want his bride to be shamed by the sight of a stinking dog.

But Master did not have the power to control where his bride went yet, and she had already seen Reek if he was to be believed.

Reek was always to be believed, he was the only bright spot in Weak’s life. 

Weak shrank back against the wall when the door opened. If it was Master then he would be angry and Weak would be punished. If it was not Master then Weak would be punished anyway for being seen.

It wasn’t Master, it was worse: it was the bride. 

Her red hair glinted in the weak light, like flames, and her skirts swept along the floors with a gentle sound. 

She was much too pretty and perfect to be near someone as foul and cowardly as Weak. 

The bride turned, and Weak must have moved slightly for her gaze locked onto him. 

“Robb?” The bride shrieked, horror and fear and disgust all filling her voice.

Weak clapped his hands over his ears and rocked in place, “No!” He moaned, “Weak! Weak! It rhymes with freak, and reek, and bleak!”

The bride stepped closer and grasped his face in her slender, cool fingers. She did not seem to flinch at his stench, nor the blood and muck that caked his skin.

There was an anger in her eyes, and a determination on her features.

“No. You are Robb Stark, my brother, my king. You swore over my cradle to protect me, you swore to never let me come to harm.” Her voice cracked, “You started a  _ war  _ to get me back.”

Weak rocked again, and let out a pained whine, “No! No! No!”

A shrieking pain filled his soul at the sound of that name, fear and terror and a memory of the torments that Master had put him through before Weak had been born. 

He could hear himself getting louder and louder, more and more panicked. And then suddenly he stopped.

A pair of icy eyes seared across the room, meeting Weak’s and freezing him solid. He did not want to make them angrier than they already were. 

“Weak.” Master said quietly, “What are you doing wasting Lady Stark’s time?”

Weak could only shiver in fear beneath his Master and the bride’s eyes. He was going to be punished. 

Master’s eyes promised pain. Pain that Weak was sure he deserved for the thoughts that swirled his brain whenever he looked upon the bride. 

* * *

The bride gripped his arm, a trembling strength in her fingers. She looked very lovely in her white gown and cloak, and Weak did not wish to sully it with his dirty touch.

He did not want to make her flinch away from him again, or for the colour to leech from her cheeks again. Master would not be happy if his wife was pale and scared looking. Not if he was not the one to put that expression on her face himself.

“Robb…” The bride whispered, her voice frail as a dry leaf, “I am scared. What happened to you? What- what is my husband to be like?”

Weak did not recognise the name that she called him, nor could he bring her the comfort that she sought.

“He- he-“ Weak swallowed heavily, and tried to think of a truth that would not scare her, “He can be kind when he is not angry. In his own way.”

He did not think his words helped her, but they were too close to the Godswood to do anything else.

The bride set her shoulders, took a deep breath, and took steady steps forwards. 

Weak admired her bravery. He could never be so brave.

He followed her footsteps, followed as she forged ahead down the footpath laid out for them. One lit by lanterns and strewn with pine needles and herbs that released a fresh scent with every step.

It was an unfairly pleasant setting for the horrors that awaited at the end of the path. 

Lord Roose Bolton awaited beneath the Heart Tree, Master stood next to him wearing a pink cloak. There was a strange smile on their faces, triumphant and amused all at once. 

The bride’s nails dig deeper into his arm, sharp pinpricks of pain that grounded Weak from the terror of having to walk towards his Master and the knowledge that he would have to speak like he was a real man. 

“Who comes before the Old Gods tonight?”

“Lady Sansa of House Stark, a woman grown, true born and noble.” Weak stammered, feeling the bride’s fingers tighten on his own.

“And who gives her?” 

He parroted the words he was supposed to say, the words that had been drilled into him with a sharp knife and a cruel smile.

“Robb of House Stark, her brother.”

There were murmurs from those around him, sweeping across the Godswood like ripples across a pond. 

“And who comes to claim her?” Lord Roose said, his voice still cold.

“Lord Ramsay of House Bolton, Heir to Winterfell and the North.” Master took the bride’s hands from Weak, her pale, thin, trembling hands.

“Lady Stark, do you take this man?” 

The bride’s eyes flickered briefly to Weak’s own, terrified blue that suddenly hardened.

“I take this man.” The bride’s voice rang out through the clearing, a hint of disdain in her tone as though she thought everyone there was beneath her. 

Weak admired her bravery. He had been far too scared to do anything but whisper his words, let alone to use a tone that might have made Master angry. 

* * *

Master had told Reek and Weak to escort his bride to his chamber, that he did not want a bedding ceremony. 

Master was possessive, and some dim memory of Weak’s told him that Master would not like other people’s hands all over his wife. 

Weak had thought that the bride would have stride ahead of them, using that courage she had shown earlier, but instead she had clung to them both. She suddenly seemed very small, and very scared.

Weak wished he could offer her comfort, but he could not think of anything he could do or say. Instead he just let her cling to him. 

Reek sent Weak a sad look over the bride’s head, and Weak felt the first stirrings of- of  _ something  _ in the back of his mind.

The heavy door to Master’s chambers loomed before them and Weak had to force himself to take the last few steps up to it. For some reason he wanted to run, to take the bride and run as far away from Master as he could. 

But he couldn’t he knew he couldn’t. It would be futile, Master would always find them and catch them and punish them. 

Master came upon them as though he had heard Weak’s thoughts. An unpleasant smile stretched across his face, and both Weak and Reek flinched away from the sight.

The bride didn’t, but she would soon enough. 

“Reek.” Master sang, “Take my bride inside. Weak, you shall guard the door. I don’t want to be disturbed. Nor do I wish to see if your fear of me outweighs your soft head.”

Weak did not understand, but he had to accept it anyway. 

He caught a glimpse of Sansa’s terrified eyes and then the heavy wooden door slammed shut. 

Terror and anger swirled around Weak’s mind, building and building and building. It grew and grew and grew.

And then-

And then-

Weak snapped.

His mind broke apart, splitting like a walnut, and somehow  _ Robb  _ came back. Robb sprang back to the forefront, filled with a glorious rage and powered by the strength of an oath sworn before he truly knew the power an oath could hold.

Life flooded back into his skinny limbs, his wasted muscles somehow finding the power to hold his head high and straighten his shoulders.

The door before him was a formidable foe to bypass, one that he had to open in his mind long before he could lay a hand upon its wooden surface. The thought of his Master’s- of  _ Ramsay Snow’s-  _ expression at Robb bursting through was almost enough to have him breaking down and cowering in terror, but then the sound of a whimper filtered through.  _ Sansa’s  _ whimper filtered through, and it was enough to straighten his shoulders once more.

He was Robb Stark. This was Winterfell. And he would not let Ramsay Snow hurt another person he loved ever again. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this! I hope you enjoy this final chapter :)

Robb did not remember the details of how his Master died. He only remembered blood, and screaming, and the taste of copper between his teeth.

He remembered a gentle hand stroking his back. A soft voice telling him that it was all alright. A warmth as a blanket was tucked around his shoulders. Two bodies curling up against him and soft snores as they all fell into an exhausted sleep.

He woke up when there was a hesitant knock on the door, some poor servant undoubtedly chosen to risk Master’s wrath. Light was streaming in through the windows, casting a pale light on the furnishings and the two who were still curled up by his side.

It also cast light upon a corpse, its face bloated and pale, lying in a pool of black blood.

Master - no, Ramsay Snow - looked so very small without his aura of menace surrounding him. It was hard to believe that someone so small, so human, so frail could have caused so much harm to Robb and his kin.

“Robb?” Sansa blearily opened her eyes, “Are you alright?”

Robb found he could not tear his eyes from the sight of his master. He was just waiting for him to jump up and announce it had all been a jape. That they were all going to be punished for their treasons upon the flaying rack, or hunted in the woods like the maids. 

Like the maid that Weak had killed. The one who had turned Robb into Weak.

Her eyes started to float before Robb’s vision, accusing and filled with pain and betrayal. 

“Robb?” The maid’s eyes suddenly turned blue, and full of concern, “Robb?”

Weak shook himself, it wasn’t a maid before him: it was the bride. He shook himself again, no it was Sansa. His sister.

Another knock sounded on the door, and Robb started to panic. As soon as anyone looked inside the room there would be chaos. As soon as anyone other than Ramsay opened the door they would know something was wrong.

They could only pray that it was not Roose Bolton at the door.

Sansa was the one of them least likely to cause an immediate panic, it was ever so slightly more feasible anyway that she would have been allowed to open the door by Master. More likely than his pets would be anyway.

“Yes?” Sansa asked, in a cooly imperious tone that she must have picked up in Kings Landing. “What is it?”

“Lord Bolton requests Lord Ramsay’s presence in his chambers, milady.” A slightly terrified voice filtered through, “He also sent me to ask if you needed the Maester’s attentions.”

A growl left Robb’s throat at the thought of his sister even having the possibility of needing a Maester, at the thought that she very well might have needed one had he not been there, had he not broken through Weak’s mind to save her.

Sansa stepped aside and allowed the maid to enter the room, evidently having decided she was no threat to them.

The maid let out a shriek as she saw the body, and all colour drained from her face.

“Milady?”

Sansa smiled, it was a cold smile, “He tried to hurt me. My brother would not let that happen.”

The maid looked at the corpse. She looked at Sansa. She looked at Robb. She looked at Theon. She looked at the corpse again. 

“Milady,” The maid bowed, a mingled look of resolve and terror in her eyes, “What- what would you have me do?”

Sansa drew herself up, and for a moment Robb could see their lady mother in her place.

“This is Winterfell, and my brother and I are Starks. We will reclaim our home.” She softened her tone to one that was coaxing, “Take my brother with you, show him the rooms in which Lord Bolton resides. I promise you, he shall not harm you.”

The maid swallowed heavily, but nodded. Weak had heard tales passed among the older servants of the times when the Starks had ruled Winterfell, and he knew she was likely eager to see if there was any truth to such tales.

It was with reluctance that Robb left his sister alone with Theon. The last time either of them had been out of his sight he had lost them. But he had to kill Roose Bolton. He had to avenge his mother and bannermen.

He took one of the knives that Master kept around the chamber and concealed it in the folds of his rags. It took effort to ignore the way that Theon flinched from him with a knife in his hand. Robb could not let himself think of the horrors that the knife might have wrought upon himself and his love. 

He should have guessed that Roose Bolton would be in the chambers that had once belonged to Robb’s father. Just as Ramsay had taken the chambers that Robb only now recalled had once been his own.

The maid took a deep breath outside the door, and glanced to Robb once as if to reassure herself that he had not wandered off. She knocked. Loudly. And then seemed to hold her breath while waiting for an answer.

“Enter.” A soft voice called out, a voice that Robb remembered mocking with Theon once upon a time. 

He smiled at the maid and dismissed her, she did not need to bear witness to what he was about to do.

Slowly he creaked the door open, every moment feeling far longer than usual. He found himself wanting to savour this, that he wanted to savour killing the traitor who had condemned Robb to months of pain and who had killed his mother.

Bolton did not look up when Weak entered, he likely thought he was just sent to give his Master’s insincere apologies.

“Weak.” He drawled, his voice as soft as ever, “Where is your master? Where is my idiot of a son?”

Robb did not answer. He wanted to wait for the right time. He shuffled closer, and closer, and closer.

Bolton finally looked up when Robb was almost atop him, “Weak? I am not a patient man.”

Robb met Roose Bolton’s pale eyes, “I am not Weak. I am Robb Stark, King in the North. You killed my mother, my wolf, and my bannermen. And now you will die.”

For the sweetest of moments fear flashed in Bolton’s eyes, fear that his son’s pet had finally snapped and broken away from his training. And then it was replaced with a cruel laughter, the resemblance between him and his son had never been more pronounced.

“You, a king?” Bolton laughed, “You are nothing more than a dog, a mongrel who can do nothing more than beg at its Master’s feet.”

Robb let the anger wash over him. Words were wind, and they could not hurt him now. 

“Your son is dead. Your legacy will be soon to follow.” Robb said, as calm as the sea on a summer’s day, “Your House will disappear, your name will go down in the footnotes of history as a warning to those who dared to betray the Starks, the Dreadfort will be dismantled stone by stone and your fortune used to pay reparations to those you hurt. You are nothing, Roose Bolton.”

Bolton’s lip curled back into a feral smile, all hints of his supposed civility vanishing to reveal the madness within. 

“Was it you who killed my son? Or that sister of yours? I expect she learnt a lot of tricks from Baelish.” For all that his face was contorted with rage, his voice was still terrifyingly soft, “No matter. Once you and that ridiculous Greyjoy pet are dead then I shall fuck a Bolton into your sister myself. It only matters that the babe has Bolton blood after all.”

Horror gripped Robb’s heart at the thought of Sansa being left alone with the man responsible for their mother’s death.

“You will die first.” He promised, surprising himself with his fervor, “You will never lay a hand upon my sister, nor will you hurt Theon.”

Bolton stood, “I would like to see a mutt like you try and keep me from doing as I please.”

In an instant he was upon Robb, a blade in his hands, slashing and hacking at him. But Robb fought back, he dived and ducked around the attacks aimed his way. 

A blow caught his arm, cutting into him and dripping blood down over his hand. He yelped at the cut, but it was almost insignificant compared to the pain of being flayed.

A slash of his own made contact. Cutting into Bolton’s side, causing a bloom of red to form on the white linen of his shirt.

They parted for a moment, breathing heavily, and Robb readjusted his knife against the palm that was slippery with his own blood. 

Robb’s muscles burned, his limbs ached, and the slice across his arm throbbed painfully, but he pushed through it.

If there was one thing his tone under Ramsay’s tender care had taught him it was how to push through pain.

He raised his knife once more and lunged forwards, only to fall to the ground when Bolton sidestepped.

“I told you it was futile.” Bolton taunted, “You are weak, and powerless, and I am going to enjoy having your skin decorate my halls.” 

He knelt over Robb, tracing the point of his knife against Robb’s face, as though he was planning on where best to make the first incision. 

But he had not knocked the blade from Robb’s hand, and Robb would not let himself be at another’s mercy ever again. 

“I am not weak.” Robb gritted out, thrusting his blade up.

Up, up, up it went, slicing through flesh with ease. 

Up, up, up and into Roose Bolton’s traitorous throat.

For a moment Bolton did not seem to comprehend what had happened to him, and then his own blade fell to the floor with a clatter and his hands flew to his neck. He was too late though, already blood was flooding his lungs, already his final breath was rattling out with a faint wheeze.

And then his eyes glazed and Robb knew he had gone to meet the justice of the Old Gods.

He thought he would feel a sense of triumph over the death of Bolton, at his revenge, but all he could feel was a sense of relief. 

He stumbled away from the corpse, stumbled back down the corridors on feet that knew where they were going. 

It was into his old chambers that his feet led him, back to his sister and his love. And as soon as he saw Theon he pulled him into a kiss that had been a long time coming. 

He had wanted to kiss Theon for a long while, but it would not have been safe with Ramsay Snow around, he would have turned any affection against them both in an instant. Theon was stiff against him for a moment, and then his too large eyes in a too thin face met Robb’s own and something within him relaxed.

A polite cough had them separating, and Robb broke away from Theon with a slight flush. 

“I know you’ve been eager to do that for years, Robb.” Sansa said, looking at the wall instead of him, “But could you maybe tell me what happened with Bolton first?”

His flush deepened, he probably should have opened with that, but he had been so excited to be  _ Robb _ again that he could not help himself.

“Bolton is dead.” He rasped, “I stabbed his throat, like they did to Mother.”

Suddenly a wave of exhaustion hit him. The blood of Roose Bolton was still splattered across Robb’s skin, but he did not care. All he cared about was the two people who stood before him.

“Sansa… Theon…” He opened his arms to them both, and sighed in contentment as they burrowed into his side.

There was still so much to do, still so much he had to heal from, but already he felt lighter. 

Already a new sun seemed to be rising. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @istaricelebelasse


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